


Riding Lightning

by centreoftheselights



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dominance, Exhibitionism, F/F, Public Sex, Sensation Play, Vessel Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centreoftheselights/pseuds/centreoftheselights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After four years as Meg's vessel, Rachel finds herself suddenly in control of her body once more. However, she has her own ideas on what to do with her shot at freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riding Lightning

Rachel wakes up in a roadside ditch, bruised and aching all over. The sun is just rising, and the sharp light against her eyelids makes her want to curl up in a ball and groan. She proceeds to do so.

The last of these takes her by surprise. Pain momentarily forgotten, she holds a hand in front of her face, flexing and extending the fingers before an incredulous stare. She places the palm flat against the earth, and pushes herself upright until she’s sitting. Then she runs the tip of her tongue slowly over her lips, and forms a single, hesitant word.

“Hello?”

There are no people nearby. No-one answers her. After a few moments, Rachel gets to her feet, wincing a little at her injuries. She stretches, and it turns into a yawn; she shakes it off with a frown and looks down at herself. Her clothes are muddied, but not torn.

She digs into the pocket of her jeans – empty – and her leather jacket – not. She pulls out a credit card and reads the name; it’s not her own. She replaces it, and runs her hands carefully over her torso and down her arms, wincing at each bruise she finds there. At her throat sits a heavy necklace, and she lets her fingers stop over the stone.

Then Rachel takes one last look around, and starts to walk down the road, away from the morning sun.

 

The sun is still kissing the horizon when a low collection of buildings in the distance. Rachel lengthens her stride slightly, and again when she makes out a familiar insignia. She strides inside, walks up to the counter, and says: “Big Mac meal with a large strawberry milkshake. Oh, and an apple pie for after.”

The sales assistant stares for a second before responding, and Rachel wonders if he sees something. She glances at her reflection in the polished plastic, but there are no visible injuries, just a few hairs out of place. She brushes them down flat.

“Rough night?” the boy asks.

Rachel smiles a little warily. “You have no idea.”

He rings up the order, and she reaches for the credit card, enters the PIN into the reader. She takes the card back a little too quickly, as though he might somehow know it isn’t really hers. When he tells her it’ll be five minutes and turns to the grill, she tries not to sigh with relief.

“Scared he might notice the blood on your hands?”

“Yours, not mine.”

The boy turns back to her, confused. She’s still the only person in the restaurant.

“Five minutes?” she prompts, and he returns to his task.

“Oh no. Did we forget to use our inside voices?”

This time, Rachel is more careful. She thinks her response, rather than speaking it.

“You’re still here.”

“Oh, you don’t get rid of me that easy! Give me a couple of hours and I’ll be back to fighting fit. So if you’re looking for an exorcism, you’d better head over to that payphone and hope the cavalry ride fast enough.”

Rachel doesn’t move.

“Oh,” Meg adds. “And they’re still your hands. I rent, not buy.”

Rachel watches the assistant at the grill. He hands over her food, and she takes a seat as far away from him as possible, half-hidden behind a pillar.

“That doesn’t mean they’re not yours,” she tells the demon inside of her. “You’ve had more use of them lately.”

“Don’t worry. When I’m done, they’re yours again. Whatever’s left of them.”

Rachel sniggers slightly as she takes a large bite of her burger, trying to savour the taste and still swallow it down as fast as possible. The warmth of the food in her stomach makes her shudder as she realises how hungry she is.

“You need to eat more,” she thinks to Meg. “We’re starving.”

For a moment, Rachel can feel the ghost of Meg’s surprise.

“This is your plan?” she says. “Sit and eat burgers?”

“Well, what else should I be doing?” Rachel wonders.

“I don’t know, something along the lines of a glorious bid for freedom?”

“Why?” asks Rachel.

Meg does not respond.

“I’ve got a couple of hours,” Rachel muses. “And then you’re running the show again. So I might as well eat. Who knows when you’ll next get the chance.”

“Don’t you have something you’d rather be doing?”

“No.”

Thoughts flicker through Rachel’s mind – of walking the streets of her hometown, and the thought that having nowhere to stay was better than going home. Of curling up in an alley with her head on a bag full of clothes. Of waking up in hospital without a clue how she’d got there, but knowing there was no-one looking for her.

“Aren’t you just a little ball of sunshine?” Meg comments. “You know, thoughts like that just make me go all tingly. Hatred, envy, loneliness – tastes like cookies.”

Except someone _had_ been looking. The demon had come back for her, and she had never left.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You were convenient, that’s all.”

“It’s been four years,” Rachel points out. “Most demons would have smoked out after a couple of months.”

“Oh, I’ve tried. I’d be gone in a moment if I needed to be.”

“But you haven’t left yet.”

Meg’s disgust surges inside of her, and Rachel flinches.

“I don’t play with my meat.”

Meg’s telling the truth in that way she has that’s not all honest. There are plenty of demons who go looking for girls like her, and Meg isn’t one of them. But...

“A jacket in my size, a dozen IDs with my photo on. Still her name on the credit card, though. I guess you only want me for my body.”

Meg is silent.

Rachel takes a couple of fries from the carton, and the salt burns on her tongue like chilli flakes. She licks her fingers clean.

“You wear it better than I ever did,” she thinks.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Disbelief rolls through Rachel. “You’re saying ‘yes’?”

“You’re no angel,” Rachel answers.

“Crowley wants my guts on a stick,” Meg says. “And he’s come damn close to getting them there.”

“And you’ve never woken me up when the knives were out,” Rachel responds. “Although I can’t say the morning after is much fun.”

“I’ve done worse to Crowley’s mooks with you watching.”

“People have done more for less.” Rachel smiles slightly. “You’re always focussed on killing Crowley. The mission that gets you up in the morning. Well, I know what’s keeping me going.”

 “Me,” Meg concludes. “So, you want me to kick back and let you take the wheel?”

“No, but there’s more than one way to ride shotgun,” Rachel thinks. “I’m on your side, whether you want me there or not. I want to see you kill Crowley and take Hell for yourself.”

Then everything goes dark. The hum of the fluorescent lights ceases, the squashed plastic seat drops away beneath her, and her tongue goes numb with forgetting the taste of meat. Rachel is tipped head-first into a sensationless void. She breathes it in, and there is nothing in her lungs.

“This isn’t your fight.” Meg’s voice echoes on all sides, like a cathedral choir. “It’s my war, and the victory will be mine.”

“Yours,” Rachel echoes fervently.

The world blinks back into place. Rachel sucks in a breath just to feel the air rush down her throat, almost choking on a half-chewed mouthful of burger. As she splutters, she tries to ignore the tight flare of warmth between her legs.

“Lust and lies,” Meg declares. “I knew I smelled a sinner. See, I still have some control over this body...”

Rachel braces herself, but the nothingness does not envelop her again. Instead, she is wracked with shivers, icy cold rippling through her as her own muscles threaten to shake her apart. She sucks in short, hard gasps of air, but the fierce pound of her heartbeat isn’t only because of the temperature drop.

When the sensation ends, Rachel’s muscles suddenly go loose and flowing; the burger slips out of her grasp and thuds against the table as she collapses in her seat. It leaves her trembling, but she’s aching for more, already getting wet from the thought of it.

“Mmm...” Meg’s contentment wraps around her own pleasure. “You sure know how to feel that, don’t you? So many endorphins, and I’ve barely begun.”

“What are you doing?” Rachel’s curious, not challenging.

“Whatever I want.” The answer sends a shiver down her spine. “Muscles might be beyond me at the moment, but this thing is full of nerves and synapses. Anatomy was always my best subject.”

“Ma’am? Is everything alright?”

The voice of the server startles Rachel, and she hears Meg laugh as she leans around the pillar for a smile.

“Peachy!” she tells him, picking up the burger again.

“Eat up,” Meg says. “That’s what you’re here for, after all.”

Rachel lifts a few more fries to her mouth and chews tentatively, expecting another onslaught.

Meg is not so predictable. Rachel becomes gradually aware of a tingling sensation along her forearm, like the gentlest brush of silk against the skin. The feeling grows, and winds its way up along her shoulders, dipping just below the nape of her neck and trickling down her other arm. Everywhere Meg’s touch passes, a trail of goosebumps rise, and the flesh burns bright and oversensitive.

Rachel swallows, and lifts the burger to her lips.

She shakes a little as the tickle slides under her armpit and onto the curve of her waist. Meg traces out swirls along her stomach and up her sides, then drags a slow, meandering line up Rachel’s back. As the sensation finds her spine, Rachel closes her eyes, trying desperately to keep her jaw moving and her breath steady as every nerve ending glows with the careful, insistent tease.

Then the feeling curls around her throat, and Rachel stops breathing altogether. She can hardly move, pinned in place by the faintest pressure creeping up her neck. She forces herself to swallow, and the touch dances over it as it reaches the very tip of her chin, pausing there.

Lightheaded, Rachel sucks in a gasp of air, just as she feels the sensation flow out along her chest and wash across her breasts.

She lets out most of the air in a moan, pressing the burger back against her mouth to try and stifle the sound.

“Enjoying the taste?” Meg asks.

Rachel wouldn’t know if it was dirt on her tongue. All she can think about is her nipples, burning against her bra with every brush of breath. She shifts and arches her back, trying to find friction on the fabric, but the burger ties her hands and even the air catches against her throat. She can do nothing but hope for more, and Meg remains infuriatingly gentle.

Millimetre by millimetre, the feeling spreads out, sending forth tendrils which sweep out across arms, back, stomach, neck. Rachel keeps eating. But when the light touch passes over her hipbone, a tremor jolts through her, and the food is forgotten.

The sensation stops in a moment, leaving Rachel’s skin tight and burning against every gust from the air conditioning. She curses her distraction, but allows herself one breath to refocus, deep down to her diaphragm. She lets out the air in a shuddering sigh, and raises a fry to her mouth.

The feeling doesn’t return, and for a moment Rachel fears that it won’t, that Meg is bored of this game. Rachel hardly knows why Meg is doing this anyway, but she won’t question it. She just hopes that it isn’t over yet.

Halfway through the mouthful, her hope is answered, although not in the way she expected. A stab of pain sears its way across her thigh, immobilising her – only to vanish again in a second. That dizzying rush of wholeness reverberates through her and makes every muscle quiver.

Rachel can taste Meg’s smugness.

“You felt that one, didn’t you?”

She knows she isn’t supposed to respond.

She eats through the fries slowly, and with each bite another shock of pain tears her open and leaves her echoing. There’s no logic or pattern to where Meg strikes; she has no chance to brace herself. She can only ride out the feeling.

When an unexpected brand across the arch of her foot makes her kick out against the table leg, Rachel forces her heels into the floor, but pulling the muscles taut only makes her knees shake as each bolt of sensation arcs through them to earth.

Yet through every sharp spike of pain and every reeling buzz of pleasure, Rachel wants nothing more than to feel this, to stretch into it with every fibre of her being, or better yet to let Meg immobilise her body so that her mind can wallow in its own torment. But Meg cannot, and so it falls to Rachel to suck in oxygen, lock her hips into place, and bite down on her burger when all she wants to do is scream out.

She couldn’t say how long it goes on for, only that when her fingers scramble against the cardboard and find nothing, it takes her by surprise. She forces her eyes open and finds that the fries are gone. She doesn’t hesitate for a second before she is scrambling at the apple pie wrapper, chasing more sensation before the last buzz has time to fade.

The pie filling is still hot enough to scorch Rachel’s tongue, but she hardly feels the pain. She’s strung out like a bowstring, her nerves razor fine and thrumming in anticipation of Meg’s draw. Every inch of skin is gasping, thirsty for another touch, and Rachel burns up with every second she has to wait. If she thought Meg would listen she would be begging, pleading for the next stab of agony to come – but Meg does what she wants, and so Rachel simply holds on and hopes that she does not drown in her own desire.

It’s only when the first mouthful of warmth slips down her gullet that the touch lands, but it isn’t the shock she was expecting, or the feather-touches Meg had started with. It’s pressure, firm but gentle, steady but rocking slightly back and forth over the curve where waist becomes hip. If Rachel didn’t know better, she would swear there was a hand pressed against her side.

The touch drains the tension out of her, stills a shake she had barely even noticed building up in her muscles and leaves her dropping back heavily against the wall of the booth. She takes another bite, and the hand is joined by it’s mirror twin; a third brings a press of lips against her upper thigh. With each mouthful, Meg’s focus drifts lower, waves of caress flowing down along her legs, and then reversing as the inexorable tide sweeps up her inner thighs. Rachel eats as slowly as possible, taking tiny, rapturous bites as invisible fingers brush towards the border of her underwear, then through it.

That’s the moment when Meg ups her game. Suddenly, there are dozens of touches – ten, twenty, too many for Rachel to count, shifting from hands to lips to something else which doesn’t matter when there’s pressure, glorious pressure everywhere except where she most wants it. Rachel is relearning her own anatomy by millimetres, her attention pinpointed upon Meg’s painstakingly slow advance.

The apple pie doesn’t last long, but this time Rachel is ready for the change. Meg pauses for just a moment, her touch stilling but not vanishing as Rachel places the straw of the milkshake in her mouth and begins to suck. It’s strawberry, thick and sweet and soothingly frozen against the fever inside of her. As the first drops hit her tongue, Meg begins to move again, and Rachel might be imagining that the rhythm is faster, the pressure increased.

Either way, Rachel’s consideration of the matter ceases sharply when Meg finally reaches her destination. The first touch inside her is torturously gentle, but the scant relief it brings has her choking back a moan. She grinds her hips against the seat unconsciously, although there is nothing there to press against. She catches herself anyway, and instead grips the seat with her free hand, the tight pull of skin against her knuckles barely enough distraction to pull her muscles back under control.

She barely holds that control under a renewed onslaught. This time, the uptake in tempo is unmistakeable, and Rachel can sense Meg’s excitement alongside her own pleasure. It’s difficult to focus, though – with her thoughts fogging over like a car windshield, it’s a challenge just to keep still, let alone to drink.

“Say,” Meg’s voice whispers in the back of her mind. “Just how long do you think it’s going to take you to... finish?”

The double meaning is clear, especially since it’s punctuated with a fingertip circling around Rachel’s clit. She wants to writhe and moan; she’s already close, but she knows Meg can – and will – keep her here as long as she pleases.

Rachel hollows her cheeks around the straw, and swallows down the gooey milkshake as fast as she can. She can feel her orgasm building, but Meg’s pace has slowed and become teasingly ponderous.

“You did order a large,” she says. “It might take a while.”

She makes another circle, and Rachel spasms. She wishes she could think of something else, some other part of her body – but there are more tantalising touches on her arms, legs, stomach, breasts, ass, and she can’t imagine drawing her attention away from Meg entirely. Her only thought is to keep drinking.

“So eager,” Meg observes. “It probably won’t take you more than, I don’t know... a minute?”

Every second is an exquisite agony. Rachel feels like she’s glowing, lighting up bright enough to blow out the windows, and she’s too far gone to feel the glass rain down. Her clit is on fire, desperate for any pressure, and she knows that even the slightest breath of pressure will push her over the end. But instead she hangs there, frozen at the peak of the rollercoaster, feeling every second of the cup’s level dropping beneath her fingers, unable to think anything more coherent than ‘please, please, _please_.’

“Nearly there,” Meg says after what could have been a century. The fingertip dips closer, but still not quite close enough. “I give it three, two, one...”

The moment that Meg makes contact the same millisecond that Rachel finds herself sucking on air, and she immediately drops into freefall. Words vanish from her mind, and she is nothing but touch and heat and euphoria. She bites her tongue against a scream, but she cannot keep herself from curling forwards as her muscles devastate themselves, every hairline crack shaking open into a fresh fault line and crashing back together to be healed. Through it all, Meg’s pleasure sparks bolts of red lightning behind her eyes and sends them dancing across her skin, wringing out every last tingle of feeling.

Afterwards, Rachel is the very best kind of burnt out, glowing with the warmth of embers. Meg is wrapped around her, their thoughts entwined, brought together by the wash of relief and physical exhaustion. Their body is limp and buzzing with the echoes of sensation. Rachel is still struggling to recover language, but she knows in her heart that she is content, and safe.

“I lied, you know,” Meg reflects. “You’re not getting this body back. When I’m done with you, I’ll burn you to nothing.”

A smile stretches across their face.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Rachel thinks.

“Ma’am?” The server’s voice from behind the counter surprises them both. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

Meg gets to her feet, ignoring the slight tremor in her legs. She shoots the boy a smile.

“Best I’ve ever had,” she tells him, and then walks out the door.


End file.
